Chapter 57 - The Blood on the White Snow
The crawlspace beneath the floor smelled of damp earth, rotted leaves, and encroaching petroleum smoke.
Arthur kicked the trapdoor shut above them, choking on the black soot raining through the floorboards.
Above their heads, boots stamped across the burning wood, followed by Eleanor’s venomous voice barking orders to encircle the perimeter.
Vance groaned in the darkness, his heavy hand clamping over Arthur’s wrist with surprising strength.
He whispered that there was an old drainage culvert leading out beneath the south foundation into the ravine.
Arthur dragged the older man through the freezing mud, crawling on his elbows while the cabin groaned like a dying beast overhead.
The heat above became suffocating, the pine logs popping like firecrackers as the blizzard whipped the blaze into a vortex.
They tumbled out of the rusted corrugated pipe into waist-deep snow, instantly enveloped by the blinding whiteout.
The wind roared in their ears at sixty miles an hour, stripping away what little warmth remained in their soaked clothes.
Behind them, the lodge was a monstrous beacon of orange and red, illuminating the falling snow like burning ash.
Fifty yards away, the headlights of two black SUVs sliced through the storm near the gated driveway.
A silhouette moved through the trees to their left, an assault rifle raised in a low-ready position.
Vance pulled a snub-nosed .38 revolver from his ankle holster, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from shock.
He whispered that they had only one shot before the mercenary spotted their dark coats against the snow.
Arthur watched the mercenary advance, methodically scanning the tree line with night-vision goggles.
A sudden gust of wind sheared a massive pine branch overhead, sending a cascade of ice crashing down ten feet away.
The mercenary spun toward the noise, raising his weapon into the empty dark.
Vance steadied his revolver across Arthur’s shoulder and fired twice.
The two muffled cracks were instantly swallowed by the storm, but the mercenary collapsed backward into the snow like a sack of stones.
Arthur scrambled forward through the drifts, stripping the tactical radio and the rifle from the fallen man’s chest.
The radio squawked with static, Eleanor’s crisp, chilling voice demanding a status update on the southern sector.
Arthur keyed the mic, pressing it to his lips, his voice shaking with pure, untamed adrenaline.
He told her that her hunter was dead and that she was next.
Before Eleanor could respond, Arthur crushed the radio beneath his boot heel into the icy slush.
He hauled Vance to his feet, draping the detective’s arm across his neck, and plunged deeper into the pitch-black forest.
The snow fell heavier now, erasing their footprints within seconds of each step.
Behind them, the silhouette of Dr. Davenport appeared at the mouth of the drainage pipe, clutching his bandaged foot and shining a halogen lantern into the woods.
Davenport shouted into the storm, warning Arthur that there was nowhere to run on the mountain.
A flare hissed into the night sky, bathing the entire valley in an eerie, blood-red glow.
Through the crimson haze, Arthur saw Eleanor standing at the edge of the ravine, her white coat billowing like wings of bone.
She raised a pair of binoculars, locking her gaze directly onto the spot where Arthur and Vance were struggling through the pines.
She raised one gloved hand, signaling the headlights on the road to begin moving toward the logging trail.
May you like
Arthur felt the cold steel of the captured rifle against his chest and knew there would be no rescue coming tonight.
If they were going to survive Ravenscliff, he would have to kill his mother in the snow.
